And One Go On Alone
by Feste the Fool
Summary: Eight shall fall and one go on alone. It's not the dying dreams that scare Merlin anymore. It's the living ones. A short nightmare oneshot somewhat inspired by Susan Cooper's The Dark is Rising sequence and Gerald Morris' The Legend of the King...and I have a thing for nightmare fiction. Not related to any of my other stories.


**Um...depressing one shot that's been haunting me for a while. Sorry? **

**Disclaimer: Still not mine!  
**

There were nightmares. Often. Almost every night, in fact. Some of them were worse than others. He saw them all die again, Will, Freya, Balinor, Agravaine. Once he even saw Morgause, although he wasn't there when it happened, and he felt what Morgana had and it was _horrible. _Sometimes he saw himself telling Arthur about everything only to be burned for his troubles. Sometimes he saw glimpses of things had didn't make sense, but he somehow knew were from the future. Maybe the distant future. Maybe not.

He talked to Gaius about them, because who else was there? He said it was because Merlin was Emrys as much as he was Merlin. Emrys needed to see these things, and Emrys was the only one that could. Going into the Crystal Cave had not helped—images of the future were forever imprinted on his soul.

He'd thought at first that the worst nightmares were the ones he had when he failed Arthur and got his best friend killed, or when it was Gwaine or Leon dying in his arms, or when Morgana took the throne and Gwen's head appeared on a pike outside the castle.

He changed his mind when he had The One.

It started with a voice whispering his name. Well, sort of his name. It was a slightly feminine voice, or so he thought. It shifted later and he couldn't really tell. All around him was dark, except for the voice. The voice that felt like his magic, but…separate.

Then the words changed. _You should be writing this down, Emrys._

Writing what?

_Your life. Your stories. The stories need to be told, Emrys. Someone's got to pass on the legend of the king. _

He'd _laughed. _It was such an absurd idea. There was no legend. Only prophecy. Prophecy and reality, the waking world they all toiled in and lived for.

The voice had hummed with anger. _You don't understand. You're too short sighted. You need to write this down._

Short sighted? He only _existed _for the long-awaited day when Arthur freed his people and he was fully accepted. He never lost sight of that day. It was never far from his mind. Everything he did was for his distant destiny. How was that being short sighted?

_That's not good enough. _

Not _good _enough? He'd show magic not _good enough. _He had struggled for his destiny, bled, lost loved ones and innocence, risked his life and sanity…he did _everything, _for that one purpose. He was everything destiny wanted, and now some upstart magical voice in a dream was telling him _that wasn't good enough?_

The voice growled. _I didn't want to hurt you, Emrys, but it's the only way to make you understand._

Even though part of him knew it was only a dream, he tensed and prepared his magic, never mind that he was pretty sure that was what was talking to him. He wasn't going to go down without a fight, no matter what was attacking him.

But nothing came at him. Instead, the darkness shifted, and an image floated before him. He was standing at his place at the round table, at Arthur's right hand side. The knights, Gaius, and Gwen filled the remaining seats, a deep seated love and determination shining in their faces. Even that early, they were bound in brotherhood. It was one of his fondest memories. How was this supposed to hurt him?

_There are eight men and one woman sitting at this table, _the voice hissed, sounding both _deeply _sad and furious. _Emrys means immortal. _You _are the _only _one that gets to live forever. _

His blood ran cold.

_The others? They're going to _die, _Emrys. They're going to die horrible and painful and bloody. One of them is gone already, and one of them will descend until he is called for again, but when he awakes, he will share their fate. You can put that off for as long as you possibly can, but you can't stop it from happening. And in the end, when all is lost and Albion burns and Camelot falls and Arthur is somewhere sleeping and _you're _the only one left, _no one _will remember them. No one will know or care if they even existed. They will be lost forever, and someday you won't even recall what they look like. _

The voice sighed. _You are their only hope, Emrys. Tell their story. Write it down, write everything down, so you can't possibly forget a single thing. It's the only way to keep them alive. _

He jerked awake, tears pouring down his cheeks, his hands trembling. His first cry woke Gaius, who did everything he could and still brought no comfort—in fact, he made it worse. When he fell silent, he broke out of his guardian's calming embrace and ran for parchment and a quill. He wrote, unceasing, from midnight until dawn. He said not a word for the next three days, but a steady, heartbreaking stream poured from his eyes for all that time.

At last it was Arthur who coaxed him into telling them what was wrong, because something was so clearly, _desperately _wrong. He looked at the king, looked _through _the king, and cracked a smile. Nightmare, he told them, his voice hoarse from misuse. Because that's what it had been. The others were pleasant in comparison.

And every day, he wrote.

Someone had to pass on the legend of the king.


End file.
